


brush strokes

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, Golden Deer Route, Pre and Post Timeskip, Zine piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: an idea strikes ignatz. it takes five years to execute.
Kudos: 15





	brush strokes

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Edge of Dawn: A FE3H Zine, which can be found [here.](https://twitter.com/fe3houseszine) thank you for the opportunity to be a part of it.

The first time the idea crossed Ignatz’s mind, his quill snapped beneath the sudden tension coiling within his body. A sharp _crack_ silenced the Professor’s lecture as black ink puddled over his notes, ruining the careful penmanship outlining authoritative tactics when instructing battalions. His classmates glanced at him, the same question etched on their faces: _What’s up with you?_

“Sorry, Professor,” he said, setting aside the broken quill and fetching a new one from his pouch, “old nib. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

The worst part was he knew he could paint it. He already conjured up the composition in his head, figured out where to get the pigments to properly capture everyone’s essences, knew which brushes to spend his meager allowance on, and how to pose his subjects. Years upon years of doodling in the margins, of sneaking about in the late afternoons to paint, would finally come to fruition in what his brain already determined to be a _magnum opus._ He bit his bottom lip and fiddled with his new quill. The sheer confidence bubbling beneath the once insurmountable uncertainty about his pass--his _hobby_ startled him bad enough to damage his own school supplies.

Professor raised an eyebrow and said nothing of it. They instead returned to their lecture at hand. Ignatz in turn boxed away the idea, shelved it in the deepest, darkest corners of his thoughts, and prayed to the Goddess that - for his parents’ sake - he could simply focus on his predetermined destiny of becoming a somewhat decent knight.

He succeeded, as it turned out. Class passed, then hours, then days, then weeks, then months. The idea never resurfaced in the twilight of his naivete youth. Mediocre brush strokes captured the stables, the glorious Garreg Mach cathedral, the occasional flower that persisted to bloom between thin cracks in the pathways despite the Guardian Moon’s chill settling upon the monastery. Perhaps once or twice, in the midst of preparing his palette, the idea whispered to him, asking him to reconsider. If only he paid attention.

But by the time he did - by the unsettling rise of the Lone Moon - it was already too late. 

Empress Edelgard declared war on the Church of Seiros. A hush gripped Garreg Mach, preparations to meet her head-on consuming all leftover free time while the prospect of war hung over every student. He traded paint brushes for arrows, exchanged paints for bow strings, and practiced spattering the training dummies’ hay-blood on the ground instead of smearing color onto canvas. One day, these dummies would become familiar faces. One day - he swallowed hard as an arrow lodged itself into a makeshift head - his pictures would turn abstract, using only dark reds spilled from those who used to be his friends to color the ground.

The Lone Moon soon vanished in all but a blink of an eye - and so did the Professor, and Lady Rhea, and seemingly the beloved Goddess who watched over Fódlan as war plagued the lands for an arduous five mind-numbing years. Any hope of producing that ghost of a painting disappeared, constantly haunting him with should haves, could haves, and would haves.

Until.

***

In a slight of the Goddess’s hand, the Professor reappeared on the day of the Millenium Festival like magic. Claude, too, returned to their promised meeting - as did every alumnus of the Golden Deer classroom. All came back, surprisingly safe and sound, and _relief_ spread through Ignatz in knowing his friends survived in spite of everything. The Alliance forces holed themselves up in the former glory known as Garreg Mach (now all but a tragic ruin) to stage a counterattack against the ever-advancing Empire. And while he knew they were safe _now,_ the future remained uncertain.

He refused to squander another chance.

Raphael came first - the easiest person to ask to model for him, but the hardest one to actually paint as his best friend refused to stand _still._ The initial sketches went through many changes, all struggling to depict the rambunctious energy brimming in every muscle Raphael showcased. Every pose seemed too stiff or too unnatural. After many observations in the training grounds and the dining hall, he at last decided to capture him laughing. Raphael’s bellowing laugh somehow made the world feel less bleak. The yellows in his clothes complimented this in their joyous warmth.

He sketched Marianne second during tactical meetings, constantly pushing up his glasses after sneaking glances. Before the war, her demeanor was enshrouded in this perpetual veil of sadness. Time lifted the veil somewhat, and her gentle smile (albeit rare) surfaced more than ever. Her self-confidence hardly budged, but she made peace with _something_ within herself - which he showed by mimicking the sky blues she now donned.

During late afternoon teatime, Lorenz _more_ than happily posed for Ignatz, demanding that his “radiant beauty” be captured in “perfect likeness” so that “every maiden throughout Fódlan in the far future will woo over my nobleness.” He claimed to have said that in jest. Ignatz knew better. The poor man still got rejected every other Tuesday. Some things never changed. And yet, the sheer confidence flying off his charming tongue oozed in the royal purples commanding attention upon the canvas. 

He bribed Lysithea with cakes and a promise to add an extra inch or two in her artistic rendition. She never slowed down in her studies as they sat together in the library, a spread of open books on her side of the table, a clutter of brushes and paints on his. Her white hair shimmered in the dying sunlight, coloring it silver. He swallowed at the sight, a reminder of aging and mortality shivering along his spine. His brush refused to stop, however, and the magic of her determination popped despite a distinct lack of color compared to her comrades.

Leonie not only agreed to model for him, but aided him in finding good pigments from wildflowers and colorful ores. The kids back in her village loved to color, she said, something she never found time to do herself. She took up bows and fishing rods to feed them, took up sewing to clothe them. While the depths of her poverty and debt appeared to know no bounds, the rugged kindness burning in her heart alit the bristles in sharp oranges. 

He traded a week’s worth of chores for Hilda’s cooperation, but as it turned out, sitting down and doing nothing while he painted was like a dream for her. She talked his ear off about the long, boring meetings she attended to how her nails became dirty from the last battle, and how _exhausting_ it was to find the food or supplies that kept the Alliance running. Her persona of shirking work contrasted reality, he realized: rather, she took it upon herself to do what Claude could not due to his busy schedule. Bold pinks manipulated eyes to look her way on the painting, asking for favors.

And Claude. Claude, the scheme beneath the smile. His eyebrow quirked upon Ignatz’s humble request (“I know you’re busy, so if you can’t -”) and made time for him in spite of his jam-packed timetable. They talked about cats, the Goddess, and Claude’s vision for Fódlan and lands to Ignatz’s eyes that remained unseen. His dreams aimed for the moon and beyond the stars, something so dazzling and vibrant that Ignatz had to squint to catch glimpses of it within Claude’s sparkling smile. His leadership besought a radiant new dawn, encapsulated in golds in the center of the scene.

Beside him would be the Professor. 

Professor, with their verdant eyes staring forward toward the unknown, unfaltering. Professor, with their steady hands clutching the Goddess-gifted sword to cut a path for Claude’s dreams. Their armor, colored like the shadows beneath everyone’s feet, bore many knicks from their numerous battles. Everyone called them enigmatic and mysterious. Like the dark side of the moon, no one may ever truly see them for what they really were, but they always watched over everybody. The blacks, almost formless, contrasted sharply with Claude’s brightness.

Ignatz removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. The faint candlelight flickered shadows across his old dormitory room, scraps of balled-up paper littering the floor. In a vase sat freshly cut flowers, ones nabbed from the greenhouse (with permission, of course!). His brush stilled. His arms grew tired. Anxiety over tomorrow’s battle - a classic case of the rowdy ruffians causing trouble in pillaged villages - kept him awake. Battles, big or small, always did. He put down the brush, yawned, and stepped back to observe his work.

The faint greens of himself stared back at him. A timid man with dreams once dashed, but a man who refused to truly let them go. A self-conscious man who once couldn’t stand up for himself, but a man who now greeted his own aspirations with scrounged-up confidence. 

He shook his head. Almost done. Just the finishing touches remained.

A knock upon his door made him squawk. Before he could cover up his unfinished piece, the Professor stepped inside, expression stoney as ever. 

“It’s late,” they said. They eyed the opened paints. “Can’t sleep?”

His shoulders slouched in defeat. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

Professor made a non-commital noise, then approached the painting, head tilted to the side. Ignatz straightened his back, eyes wide and hyper-aware of every miniscule expression that flickered in their stoic countenance. Their silent appraisal dragged on for seemingly hours, even if it were only minutes. Sweat collected along his brow, nails digging into his palms from how tightly he balled his fists. What did they think? Would they admonish him for wasting his time when he could have been training? Commend him for his dedication?

“Forget-me-nots,” they said at last, touching the penciled-in flowers in the corners of the painting. He almost did a double-take.

“Um,” he replied ever-so-eloquently.

“You wrote down ‘red’ over here,” they said, fingertips going from one corner to the other, “and ‘blue’ here.” A smile - weary and sad - crossed their face. “You’re so thoughtful, even to your enemies.”

They understood. He didn’t even need to explain anything. His gaze shifted to the floor. “When we were students, I wanted to paint _everyone_ , Professor. Every student, despite their class. Even if we came from different places, we all still called _Fódlan_ our home. But…” He trailed off, brow furrowing, and shook his head. “I couldn’t,” he continued, and his voice came out painfully strained. “And now, I _can’t._ This is all I can do now, and it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough to honor everyone.”

War stole those chances forever.

Silence stretched out for eons until a hand squeezed his shoulder. Ignatz looked up, and Professor’s smile changed.

“It’s enough,” they said.

Their words burned his eyes, and the tears spilled from him in tired, regretful sobs. _It’s enough._ Professor offered an awkward hug, which was also enough. He buried his head in their shoulder, and they patted his back once, twice.

“When it’s done, I want to hang it in the meeting room,” they said. Ignatz jerked his head up to protest, but Professor held up their hand. “It will remind us of what we are fighting for when we need it the most - for each other, and for those we have lost and will lose along the way.” Their stare returned to the painting. “It’s _more_ than enough, Ignatz. Feel proud of all you have accomplished.”

He wiped his face on his sleeve, and nodded. The painting of his friends would be a testament for all they accomplished, together - as the Golden Deer, and as the Alliance. As the freedom fighters for Fódlan’s peace, and future.

He managed to smile back.

“Thank you,” he replied, straightening his shoulders, “for everything, Professor.”


End file.
